One of my pet peeves is the application of a sticker to an inappropriate place on an item I’m purchasing.

I buy a book. A sticker adorns the cover smack in the middle of the title.

How did it get to this point?

I picture the cover designer saying, “I’m going to put a fat barcode across the title!”

“Brilliant!” the publisher says. “Ambiance sells! Let’s use super glue too! We don’t want to lose a barcode!”

When I get the book home, I try peeling, but only half the sticker comes off. The bar code resists, and I leave a trail of glue and white slop. I use a scissor to scrape more, leaving assorted scratches, indents and residue.

“It’s what’s inside that counts for me,” I muse.

I open the book and see another sticker on the front flap.

“How will I ever learn about the author?”

I grab a chunk of pages and flip them aside to read the back flap.

Under “about the author” is a sticker blocking the first paragraph.

“Join the Boffo book club for exclusive offers.”

My thumbnail hurts from trying to remove it. Instead, I read the one legible line.

“The author lives—”

“Gee thanks.”

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A new credit card arrives in the mail.

I’m happy to see my company no longer requires a signature box behind the card. I’m not happy the activation instructions adhered to the face of the card with epoxy.

I go to the website on the sticker to activate the card. I’m asked to enter the account number. Half of which is covered by the impenetrable sticker. My blood pressure rises like a temperature gauge in a globally warmed desert.

I decide to call the phone number on the card.

The company uses a micro-font to prevent you from reading it. Isn’t that information everyone should be able to read?

------------

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, unless the supermarket adds a toxic sticker to its skin, causing me to whittle away the part with the most nutrients.

I use a kitchen knife to hack the sticker off.

I’m left with apple sauce.

---------

“What a lovely bottle of extra virgin olive oil. We can use it as a vase when empty.”

Three months later, I wash the remaining oil out, face the vase toward me, insert flowers and marvel at the immovable price sticker!

I run the bottle under hot water, then try alcohol and white vinegar. The sticker will not budge. I dream of setting the bottle on top of a garbage pail in my yard, lighting my flame thrower, and melting them both into unrecognizable ooze. Instead, I put the bottle in the recycle bin.

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My son gave me a figurine in a collectible plastic case. However, after I scrapped off the assorted stickers with my penknife, it looks like the NY City subway rats ate it for breakfast.

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“Thank you for the lovely blue shirt!” I say to my wife. “It’s my favorite color.”

I’m eager to try it on. However, first I must remove the clear plastic holder pinned under the collar. I pry the pins out. The bones in my fingers curl into unusable appendages.

Does the person who folded the shirt own stock in the Acme Pin company?

Finally, I wear the shirt. I’m home free.

“What do you think?” I ask my wife.

“There’s a sticker on your collar that says, ‘do not remove.’”

--------

I buy a handsome eight-by-ten wood frame for my diploma. The glass will protect my most important piece of documentation if I can use my superpowers to remove the sticker adhered dead center on the glass.

I debate whether to use the flame thrower but leave the sticker showing a fake family smiling at their fortunes. It will be a great conversation starter.

--------

Resistance is futile. I’m resigned to accepting the aesthetics of an annoying sticker.

This article from the book Lens of Laughter by the article author John Passadino and is available on Amazon.

Passadino Publishing LLC

The Home Depot, Inc. is a huge home improvement store in the United States. They sell tools, screws, and nails, plus anything you can think of you’d find in and around a home.

Wide aisles, employees in orange aprons eager to help, and low prices, make Home Depot a great place to shop. They even hold free “how to” workshops.

Recently, I visited my local Home Depot to look for a combination lock.

I breeze past the inside gates.

What happened to the happy greeters with the shiny accomplishment badges? Perhaps on break?

I see two fellow shoppers wandering the wide empty aisles. One looks dehydrated.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” the shopper says. “I’ve been looking for a water filter for three days.”

“I think you should find a water fountain first.”

The lost customer stares through me with waterless eyes.

The second wanderer stands across from a twenty-five-foot-long wall of various pipe fittings. I see couplings, elbows, and flanges. The store offers a choice of material. Copper or PVC. The lost person holds a list in his hand. The ink worn from it, he turns and mumbles, “Help.”

“Sorry, I know nothing about plumbing, except I know something makes a whoosh sound when I flush.”

The man grabs his elbow and opens and closes his arm as if performing a biceps curl.

“Oh, you need an elbow fitting.”

“Yes! Yes!” He sobs. He holds two hands up and spreads all ten fingers.

“A ten-inch elbow?”

“Oh my God, yes!”

I need to settle him into reality. I too, am a customer in need of assistance.

“I’m looking for a Master Lock. A combination lock.”

I make a spin motion with my fingers. He falls to his knees and forms a fetal position. I back away as he cries, “You’ll never find it!”

Next, I walk past the paint department. A line of people longing for help has formed. A Home Depot employee uses a rubber hammer splattered with paint to tap on a paint can lid. He reminds me of a performer in a Broadway show called Stomp.

This is so cool. He’s a street performer.

“It was cool the first two minutes he did it. He’s been in a trance for ten more,” a customer said.

A woman waiting on the line sharpens paint stirrers with a penknife and hands them out like shives. She puts her index and forefinger to her eyes, then points to her watch. I think she said, “We attack at 15:00.”

I wonder where locks could be. Home Depot sold door, window, and garage locks. But I needed a lock for my locker. An empty kiosk for key making glistened.

Ah ha. I’m getting warmer. Keys go with locks, but I don’t see anyone here.

A person with a long straggly beard and a jingling keychain crawls from behind the kiosk and whispers, “It’s for show. Don’t believe the hype.”

I see an employee racing toward me. Her hair flies behind her.

“Yay! I can ask for help!”

I see her mouth forming words and as she blows past me, I hear, “Not my department!”

Pretty flowers beckon me, and double glass doors open as the electric opener senses me. I’m in the garden department. My will is weak. Hundreds of flowers wave in the breeze.

“Does anyone ever buy these?” I ask aloud.

A flower responds.

“No, we are overpriced, and the orange apron people will dump us at the end of the month. Save us!”

“I will if you tell me where the orange apron people stock Master locks.”

The flower folds and droops.

“We’re not allowed to give store directions. They’ll cut back on our Miracle-Gro.”

Now I’m in a second section where a man waves caution flags while another drives a forklift. I see a mountainous pallet of mulch bags.

The warning siren of the forklift shrieks, and a man with warning flags does a choreographed flag waving show.

“Very pretty and well-coordinated. I can tell you worked hard on it,” I say. “You should get together with the Stomp performer in the paint department.”

Then I realize he's warning me that I will be crushed to death in five seconds unless I move. A hard right takes me to the garden center cash registers, where a worker who looks twelve years old hides behind a price scanner.

“No worries. I promise I won’t bother you with buying something.”

Relieved, he stands down and resumes eating a banana.

I’m in the parking lot. A sea of cars sparkles in the scorching sun. My watch signals 3PM.

Hmm. I wonder how the attack on the paint department went.

Every SUV and truck in the lot looks the same. It’s a conspiracy.

“If I look for my car now, I’ll be home before sunset. I’ll be back tomorrow to search the mysterious aisles in the rear section of the store where alarms sound. ‘Go back. This door is alarmed.’ Alarmed for what? Don’t they realize shop lifters go out the front door?”

I take a sip from my canteen, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and set out to find my vehicle. I will rest for tonight, for tomorrow is another day at The Home Depot.

All content copyright Passadino Publishing LLC

My wife Lulu hates crumbs.

When she sees a crumb on our kitchen island, she’ll swoop in like a vulture diving for its prey and then, like a magician, make it disappear into thin air. I want to applaud, but know she knows I’m the culprit. I created the crumb. Where did it come from? It may come from a pretzel, a crisp loaf of Italian bread, or an English muffin overcooked in the toaster oven.

She turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

The eyebrow says, “I hate crumbs.” Her grimaced face says, “And you let this one exist.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t see it, I swear,” I whimper like a child in time out.

She lowers her eyebrow and slings her dish towel over her shoulder like a gunslinger.

She speaks in a Clint Eastwood cadence. “I…hate…crumbs.”

“Okay, I get it,” I say. “But it’s just a crumb.”

Lulu whips her dishtowel over her head as if to lasso me.

“I’m sorry I said that!” I say.

She flips it back to her shoulder and blows on it as if extinguishing smoke from a gun. Determined not to offend her again, I plan to cut, tear, and chew my food slowly.

Still, my freedom is at stake. How could I live this way? They were crumbs. So what? It was then I invented the 3 days no crumbs challenge to show Lulu I could improve.

Days 1 — Toast

The next day I set the toaster to light, thinking it would result in fewer crumbs. I place my toast on a wide swath of paper towel and butter it slowly. I push cold butter onto hot lightly toasted bread. The bread bends with the grease and doesn’t jettison crumbs. My crumb production subsides by at least fifty percent.

I wrap my paper towels carefully and deposit them in the trash. I peruse the dining room table and don’t see any signs of trouble. I digest my buttered toast in peace.

Rating: Successful

Days 2 — Pizza

I like my pizza well done and crispy, and I order a grandma pie with extra cheese, thinking the cheese would offset the crispiness and stop crumbs from forming.

But alas, it was too difficult to control the burnt crisps of dough and as Lulu rounds the corner, several chunks break free and patter the table. Fortunately, I sweep them away in the same motion it took me to reach for the parmesan cheese. I hide them in the palm of my hand. I scoop the crumbs into my mouth and chew furiously to destroy the evidence. She turns the corner and looks at me with hands on hips.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say with my teeth clenched.

When she leaves, I revel in the joy of hidden pizza crumbs.

Rating: Successful

Day 3 — Sourdough pretzels

I love the crunch of sour dough pretzels. I buy Snyder’s large size. It’s impossible not to shatter one when biting down, so I decide to break off small pieces and eat over the bowl. The strategy works until I get caught up in the emotion of a close NBA playoff game. I reach into the bowl and grab a whole one, put half in my mouth and bite down.

The pretzel shatters but soothes my close game stress. I hear Lulu’s footsteps, so I finish the pretzel, check for stray crumbs and move the bowl aside.

I’m going to be okay. This is day three. I’m establishing a new crumb habit and will share my 3-day success story with her and the world!

Lulu stands behind my chair and watches the remaining seconds of the game. My team wins.

“Bowl,” she says.

I lift the bowl and obediently raise it over my head. She takes ownership of it from behind me and will make sure the remaining pretzels are re-bagged; crumbs dumped into the garbage and bowl washed. With the bowl in her hands, I no longer have responsibility for crumbs.

Victory is mine.

I stand and turn to her in victory. Her eyes widen as sour dough pretzel crumbs cascade down my shirt and onto the floor. I shuffle my feet to hide them, but it’s too late. Lulu already has the broom and shovel and is sweeping around my feet.

Fail.

But wait. She waltzes around my easy chair, puts down the broom, and hugs me.

Does she need approval for a large purchase? Is this her last hug before she puts me in permanent time out?

“Thank-you for working so hard to give us a crumb free environment. I truly appreciate it. And you’re right, they’re just crumbs. Your happiness is more important than them. I’m glad your team won, and you obviously enjoyed yourself.”

She reaches out and plucks a piece of pretzel from my tee shirt and pops it in her mouth.

“Hmm. Good. But keep them in the bowl next time.” She smiles, then holds the bowl and sweeps crumbs into it.

“I will, Lulu. I will.”

“Good. Now step away from the pretzel bowl and hand me your Amex Gold Card.”

When I sat in the dental chair, the kind hygienist gave me a tiny plastic cup to drink from.

“Oh, a cocktail!” I joked.

She smiled a friendly but guarded smile.

I sipped, then spoke with liquid in my mouth.

“Urg. What urg do I urg do next?”

“Hold it for ten seconds, then spit it into this,” she said, holding a small cup under my chin. I saw her hand covered in latex.

Why the gloves? Am I spitting flesh-eating bacteria?

“Wha urg is ish?”

“Anti-bacterial solution,” she said.

I felt my teeth melting. I looked and didn’t see a sink to rinse in.

“Is it okay to not rinse?” I squeaked.

“It’s the same as any mouthwash,” she said matter-of-factly. I debated with irrational fear thoughts.

Didn’t the government say we could ingest one million parts of forever chemicals per five million cells? How long before my kidneys burst into flames?

The dental professional sorted her tools and x-ray cards like a Middle Ages executioner while I perused the room, which resembled a broom closet.

“Everybody Hurts” by REM played over the tinny speaker overhead.

Hilarious. Note to self, strangle the deejay.

The dreaded hook, scaler, and mouth mirror sparkled. I pictured the hook digging into a cavity. Imagining the worst is a favorite pastime of a person with anxiety.

My heart skipped a beat. I started slow breathing to help me through. As a person living with panic attacks, I learned many techniques to cope.

My favorite mantra:

I breathe in peace, I exhale anxiety.

The pleasant clinician then plopped a very heavy lead apron on my chest. My lungs cried for mercy. My stomach fell to my knees. But I found solace knowing kryptonite could not harm me.

“I’m Superman!” I said.

The hygienist didn’t respond but I’m sure she made a mental note to update my file with a “looney tunes” designation.

Next came the X-ray cards.

“Open wide.”

I opened.

“Wider please.”

The card wedged against the roof of my mouth.

“And just a little more.”

My mouth opened like a pelican. She stepped out of the room and pressed the button that shot radiation into my body.

I wonder if the radiation will kill the forever chemicals; I thought as I wheezed from the pressure of the apron.

The methodical process continued. She took a portrait of every tooth from multiple angles.

Gee. I can make a story on Instagram. I could see the comments.

“Your incisors turn me on. Contact me on OnlyFans and I will show you mine.”

Thankfully, the hygienist lifted the weight off my chest, and I could speak aloud plus my heart could beat freely.

“Will you be sending those x-rays to Shutterfly to be developed?”

My humor helps me relax too. People don’t always realize that.

“We’re in the 21st century. The pictures are ready now,” she said, like a chair umpire at a tennis match.

I think I insulted her. I prepared for retribution. My heart raced and my face felt flush. Oops. Panic!

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, fine,” I lied. Panic attack sufferers hide it.

Then I imagined walking on a beach with my wife, Lulu. Better to use positive imagery than negative when fending off anxiety.

A suction tube hooked over my lip and pressed it against my teeth to snap me to reality. The suction attached to the inside of my cheek making the right side of my face looked like Boris Karloff.

Please release my cheek before it gets gangrene.

I pulled it off. She turned when she heard the “thwap” sound.

“Everything okay?”

“I lost a chunk of flesh but otherwise having a great time,” I said.

Her knuckles pushed against my gums, lips and nostrils.

Is she punishing me for being a wise guy?

The light blinded me, the suction burned my cheek, and her knuckles made me look like Porky Pig. I suppressed a moan.

The dreaded one-way conversation began. I squirmed in my seat. Social anxiety joined physical pain anxiety.

“So, any plans for the fall?” She asked.

“Uh uh ooh ah.”

“We’re going to Vermont.”

“Oh uh oh uh.”

“We have a house on Lake Echo.”

“Oh uh.”

Mercifully, the scaling and one-way conversation ended. I was close to the end. I incorporated a third technique. I relaxed my muscles. I wondered if she noticed I resembled a wet noodle.

Next up was the polishing. She pressed each tooth with her high-speed brush and carnauba wax.

Nice, make them shine by removing the enamel, I thought. Then realizing my negativity, I changed course.

Take a moment, fill your mind with happy thoughts. You’re nearly finished!

I chose visions of Carvel ice cream cake.

The dentist approached to complete the exam. She took a piece of gauze and grabbed my tongue.

If my wife Lulu were here, she’d help the Doctor pull it out by its roots and toss it into a jar of alcohol for safekeeping.

“Everything looks great,” the doctor said.

“Do I get a sticker?”

“You sure do!”

The hygienist put a “good patient” sticker on my shirt. I glowed like a lighthouse guiding the boats in from the Atlantic.

Both ladies applauded.

“We’re glad you made it through without a panic attack this time, John,” the hygienist said, smiling.

It was then I realized that although it’s not comfortable going to a dentist for many, the staff does their best to make us feel good. Slow breathing, happy thoughts, and relaxation combined with their good wishes combined to help me through.

“Wait, John, I think we missed a small cavity,” the dentist said while rolling a glistening sickle hook in her hand and smiling.

I pictured a Carvel ice cream cake and sat back, a cautiously optimistic dental patient.

photo by the author

People ask me the secret of my long marriage (42 years).

It’s time I shared:

1 — Hide. After you’ve gotten your spouse upset, find a closet or crawl space to hide.

2 — Freeze. If you cannot find a place to hide. Pretend you’re a statue.

3 — Cry. Feign emotional distress to garner sympathy.

4 — Trip. Trip over a hassock, stool, or fake crack in the floor, then see number 3.

5 — Explode. As a last resort, spontaneously explode but wrap yourself in a plastic trash bag first.

Try these and keep an extra-large plastic bag close, in case.

Click here for a video version!

I use online banking exclusively, but one sunny spring afternoon; I needed a large sum of cash.

When I pushed through the glass doors, peered at the multitude of paper slips to choose, a migraine set in.

Were there always that many choices? It’s worse than the US Post Office!

I chose a reddish slip from its slot, thinking red meant a decrease in balance, thus a withdrawal. The word “Deposits” printed across the top sent my psyche reeling. I used a magician’s sleight of hand to crumple it, then slid it into the standing desks built-in trash receptacle which was the tiniest I’d ever seen.

How many papers can they fit in those? Two?

The bank didn’t print instructions on the white slip, as if daring a user to figure it out. I looked into the security camera and crumpled it slowly in an expression of rebellion and displeasure. Next, I hit pay dirt with the green slip.

Withdrawals. Yes!

I curved my hand over it like a bank robber about to write the note of a lifetime.

My inner voice turned into Humphrey Bogart.

I need four thousand dollars in unmarked bills. Slide it under the plexiglass slowly. Don’t give me a dye pack or it’s curtains for you.

The tiny white boxes on the slip teased me.

“You can’t print. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.”

Muscle memory took over.

4000

However, immediately, I entered the next crisis mode.

Do I add a comma after the four?

How about a decimal point after the third zero?

I saw what looked like a tiny gray gap between numbers and proceeded with the decimal. My hand etched the dot too hard, and the pen skidded down the paper. I crumpled the paper.

A woman sat with her teen son, opening his first bank account. She asked a hundred questions as the bank manager’s frozen smile melted.

I grabbed another green slip.

I added a decimal point on the paper but used lighter pressure. That caused my wrist to go limp. A man in a New York Mets hat smirked. Next, I added a comma, this time with medium pressure. I stepped back and admired my work, then looked over my sunglasses at the Mets fan. He raised his eyebrows. I flexed my biceps, then clenched my teeth to hide the pain from my strained muscles.

My face beamed with pride that my decimal and comma appeared on the copy. I held it up as if in show and tell in nursery school.

Look! I make! I make!

How would I communicate my bill preference?

Easy, like Humphry Bogart, via a note.

I clenched my teeth and wrote: “In hundreds, please.”

The next hurdle would be security clearance. Companies allow hackers to waltz into our files and steal them. But banks ramp up the security when we try to access our own information or money.

CIA level security screams at you, “No way, buddy!”

First, I feebly slipped the note into the tiny crack left for the teller to communicate in a barely audible whisper. His poker face didn’t give any thoughts away, but I read his mind.

“This is not your day. You won’t leave this bank with one cent of Mr. Passadino’s money, you sad imposter!”

The gauntlet had begun.

“So, you’re making a withdrawal today.”

Gulp. “Yes.” I almost said, “Yes, sir.”

Inappropriate questions followed.

“Buying something big?”

I shuffled my feet and wanted to say, “Aww shucks I dunno,” like Jethro Clampett from the Beverly Hillbillies, but I said, “Yes.” Unfortunately, my voice cracked as if entering puberty.

The teller flinched. I knew using so few words would short-circuit his nosy intent, but he got even quickly. He tilted his head and commanded me.

“Scan your driver’s license, please.”

I looked at a Star Trek Phaser turned upside down. Behind it, I saw various diagrams and arrows. The teller smiled at his knowledge that no one had ever scanned on the first try.

I turned my head and saw people looking like angry zombies from Night of the Living Dead holding various colored bank slips. I knew I had perhaps ten seconds to get the scan correct before they moved in to tear my limbs off and ingest them.

I fumbled with the plastic card and pressed the front against the scanner, then pressed the back. One more strike and I’d be out. The teller behind the plexiglass looked at me with despise and pity.

An arm popped out of the plexiglass and snatched the license. It continued to move fluidly and while staring through me, the teller made the security light blink green. A sigh erupted from the gang behind me. Color returned to my face, and I cancelled the emergency call my Apple watch launched when it detected my oncoming stroke.

My journey continued to the money counting phase. I’d need to see through the clouded glass and bars and count the cash with my eyeballs.

“Big bills?”

Somehow, I detected the banker’s question to be a riddle. I mumbled, “Big bills, big bills,” as I tried to come up with a way to decrypt the code.

“Hundreds?” He said.

“Aha! Yes!”

The teller blinked three times in a row to signify he thought me to be a blithering idiot. He took a stack of bills and patted, fanned, and caressed them before he fed them to a machine that looked like it hadn’t eaten in many days.

I wanted to cry. I could no longer stare at the teller and question his count. A machine took that right from me.

“Envelope?” he asked.

“Yes?”

Why I answered an affirmative via a question, I did not know.

As the zombies approached with hands outstretched, the bank official pushed a fat envelope through the tiny crack. I clutched it like a toddler with his first Oreo cookie.

Almost home free, I stuffed the envelope into my front pocket. Why? The answer’s obvious. When a thief robs you and says, “Give me your money,” you’ll hand him your wallet but not what’s in your front pocket. Right? He won’t see the bulge in your shirt pocket. They never look there, just like monsters never look under the bed.

I turned to get away when I heard the teller’s voice calling me.

I wondered what I did wrong. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, and I prepared a statement of apology.

“I’m so sorry. I bank from my computer or phone. I didn’t understand the protocol. I’ll stay at your station until the process is complete next time. I am so, so, sorry.”

I turned and, as I did, used a face I make when I give a blood sample so I could garner sympathy from the zombies.

I looked the teller in the eye.

“Do you want to know your balance?”

“Balance?”

Again, I acted like I arrived in America that morning on the SS Stupid.

“Okay,” I squeaked.

He handed a slip of paper through the slot. The zombie people looked sympathetic as they parted to allow feeble me to pass through.

I arrived home, closed the curtains, stashed the cash, and hugged my smart phone.